The Evil That Men Do by Steve Rollins Page B

working,” Riley said.
    “Are better than a thousand hands praying,” Roberta finished. It had been a favorite saying of their mothers. In willful discord, she had bucked against her own Baptist upbringing through instilling a nigh-unbreakable sense of self-reliance in her daughters. The look on Roberta’s face told Riley that she had won her sister over with this plea to history. Roberta threw some water on her face and checked her reflection sourly in the mirror. Her face was resuming its former sternness, the face that she wore when hunting down bail jumpers, the face that Riley knew preceded strong action. She then pulled out a bunch of keys and unlocked the small safe that lay in the corner of the kitchen area, pulling out a small box of shotgun shells, and a snub barreled revolver, which she pressed into Riley’s hand with a meaningful look. Roberta said nothing, but crossed back through to the front of the office and slung her jacket over one shoulder, and turned to look at Riley. Riley grinned.
    “Let’s go get our sister back,” Roberta said.
    As the sun came up over Savannah, Roberta drove at high speed through deserted streets, consideration of local traffic laws discarded like so much garbage in the gutter. Riley bounced along with a sense of purpose swelling in her breast that almost resembled happiness, and before she knew it, they pulled up outside the house of Madeline Frome. Neither Riley nor Roberta had discussed the destination, but their minds were finally in one accord.
    “You knock on the door.”
    “OK, you get round the back and look for clues? I’ll stall Frome.”
    “Just like when we stole those apples from Old Man Jeffries when we were kids, remember?”
    “This is a bit bigger than that, Riley. Keep your pistol in your hand, OK?” Roberta stopped the engine of her pickup truck, and sat motionless for a moment. “I don’t know how far Frome is involved in this. She might just be a stupid old woman, but she might not be.”
    “You think she could be involved?” Riley said. She had not considered this possibility.
    “I don’t know,” Roberta mused. “I doubt it, but with Ricki’s life on the line, let’s not take any chances. I’ll leave my shotgun in the truck, so if I start yelling, you come running, got it?”
    “I don’t think Mrs. Frome is likely to be a problem, Bobby.”
    Roberta laughed. “No, I don’t imagine she will be, but we don’t know who else is in there. If Frome isn’t in on this whole thing, well, that’s fine. But if she is, she might not be alone.”
    They got out of the car, another unspoken signal setting them in motion. Roberta locked the door to the truck, and Riley followed her across the street to Madeline Frome’s house. The street was silent, save for the morning birds. It was almost tranquil, were it not for the two women walking with purpose. At the boundary of Frome’s property, demarcated by a white picket fence, Riley and Roberta’s eyes met, a silent wish of good luck. Roberta forked away to the left, along the front of the property and up the few steps toward the front door. Riley continued straight along the eastern wall of the large town house, the rising sun casting her shadow against it. She would have to proceed carefully at the other end of the wall to avoid giving away her presence, if anyone was there to see her. She crouched and crept as she passed the meridian point to skirt under an open window. From her position she could see into the room beyond the windowsill, by craning her neck a little she saw tiled walls, a pastel blue shade. Evidently the kitchen. From the front of the house, Riley heard Roberta’s firm and insistent knock and crept to the corner of the house that led to the rear of the property. A low gate barred the way, which Riley decided to vault rather than risk the noise of creaking hinges. All the gates in Savannah creaked, all the old ones like this at least. It was a by-product of the perpetually